Growing up, nothing seemed more important than trying to
convince my mother I needed a pet. She
had been a farm girl before her marriage, and now that she lived in the city,
she believed animals were out of place in houses or tied up outside. Once, a friend’s cat had kittens and I brought
one home, playing with it by dangling a strand of yarn. I thought my mother couldn’t resist how cute
the little thing looked, but resist she did and the kitten went back to my
friend.
My only choice in pets was two goldfish named Minnie the
Moocher and Winnie the Pooh, named for obvious reasons. They were improperly housed in a little bowl
of tap water and didn’t survive long, though I had no idea I caused their
demise. I was so desperate to have
something of my own, that I took charge of a live chicken given to my parents
by my uncle Fred, a farmer. It was
intended to have its head cut off the following day, but I thought I might tame
it. I somehow managed to tie a string
around its neck, but it almost pecked it off, so I had to lock it up in the
garage. Altogether, it was an unsatisfactory
pet, and I neither shed tears nor hesitated to eat it when it appeared on the
dinner table.
One Sunday, my father agreed to take me to the pound to pick
out a dog, and I was beside myself with joy.
I could hardly believe he and Mother were allowing this. I still can’t believe he knew the pound was
closed, but it was, and that trip was never to be repeated. I actually think I caught them both in a weak
moment, for my mother came flying to the door, rather excited, when I pretended
I had a dog by giving out little yips and barks.
All this frustrating background with attempts to have a pet
resulted, quite naturally, in my husband and I acquiring two Siamese kittens within
six months of our marriage. It only took
a month for us to return one of them since it became clear our furniture and
curtains couldn’t survive the siblings tearing around the apartment in
rambunctious play. We kept the big male,
Chula, named for the prince in Anna and
the King of Siam. He quickly became
my own cat and he also quickly became a source of a severe allergy. I wouldn’t admit it, of course, denying the
cause of my coughing and wheezing.
Eventually, we were to move from Cedar Rapids, Iowa, to Richardson,
Texas, because of my husband getting a transfer, and though we made
preparations for taking Chula by getting him some tranquilizers, we gave up
after a hundred miles of his yowling and pacing in the car. We dropped him off at an animal clinic and
for months I had bad dreams about that cat following us to Texas on bloody
paws.
But that was not the end of our pet story. Several moves later, we ended up in
Tennessee, and after a couple of years there, a friend’s poodle had pups. She
asked me if I’d like one, and I couldn’t resist, and so we got Sophie, a
chocolate miniature. We loved Sophie,
who was smart and sweet and obedient.
Again, she became my dog, much to my husband’s chagrin, as he always
thought of himself as the animal lover par
excellance. Sophie was tended to
like a princess, and through the years she went everywhere possible with
us. Our older boys babysat her when Max
and I took trips, and finally when she was in her dotage at the age of
seventeen, Max called our friend, Dr. Jim Hale, a vet, who came to the house
and put her to final rest. As it
happened I was at my sister’s in Virginia, and missed the sad event, a kindness
on Max’s part.
